


Love, Minerva

by MuggleMaybe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Community: HPFT, Epistolary, F/M, Heartache, Love Letters, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 18:37:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6999859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuggleMaybe/pseuds/MuggleMaybe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of raven hair the lady is who flees in dark of night.<br/>She has chosen magic with a well determined mind<br/>But, though she carries all her hopes,<br/>Her heart, she leaves behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August 1954

_Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,_  
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:  
I will luve thee still, my dear,  
While the sands o' life shall run

*

August 28, 1954

Dearest Doug,

Even as I begin to write this letter I know that I can never send it, but perhaps the act of setting quill to parchment will calm my soul a bit from the storm it has suffered these past days.

My love, I am so sorry. You will never know how sorry, and for that I am sorrier still. I have weighed the desires of my heart against the desires of my soul, and my soul has won out. Already I am heavy with regret, but I know this would be the case either way. At least this course allows me to blame myself for my suffering, rather than inflicting that blight upon you.

I keep imagining you the morning after I left… your steady steps on the dew-wet grass of dawn as you head out to feed the horses. I don’t know how you find your way every time, but then the fog never did bother you the way it bothered me. Our mornings together were lovely, were they not? It thrilled me to sneak out of my father’s home and steal across the fields to you. I could never tell you this, but it always made me think of the Quidditch pitch, that wide expanse of green. When I saw your eyes, it was every bit as miraculous as flying.

Your eyes haunt me now.  Did you return to the cottage this morning eager for your tea and toast, expecting to see me there with a sleepy smile and a dressing gown? I wonder at the expression that crossed your face when you found the kettle cold. Did you rage at me over your breakfast, the first you’d eaten alone in months? I hope you did. Truly, I feel I deserve it.

I am certain you’re mad with frustration to know how I disappeared without a trace. You were always such an inquisitive man. To lose your words, your wise and witty conversation, is among my greatest regrets. In this case, however, the vanishing was too literal to be exciting. It was merely magic.

Merely magic, I say, and yet it is for this small treasure that I have given up the truest desire my heart has ever known. I keep trying to console myself that it was not a hasty decision. I watched my mother over the course of so many years, retreating further and further into herself. When I last saw her, in the dim light of slumber, her arms were wrapped around my father as if he was all she had in the world. And he is. She has nothing of herself anymore, and it is that I fear above all else. Her soul is suffocated in shadow.

The last few nights, ever since I left, I have dreamt of us flying together, and when I wake it is with the bittersweet taste of a beautiful impossibility on my tongue, and the salt of tears on my cheeks. I have spent many hours crying lately. I know I have no right to tears when it was I who left, who chose with great deliberation to disappear into the night.

I am gone, but still, I am yours.

Love,  
Minerva

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epitaph is from "A Red, Red Rose" by Robert Burns. Of course, JKR owns the Potterverse.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. I would love to hear your thoughts!


	2. September 1954

_Meanwhile, the trees were just as green as before; the birds sang and the sun shone as clearly now as ever. The familiar surroundings had not darkened because of her grief, nor sickened because of her pain._

*

September 1, 1954

Dearest Doug,

I am doubly melancholy today. I still miss you terribly. On top of that, earlier today the Hogwarts Express boarded up and departed for the castle, and for the first time in many years I was not among the passengers. It would be a lie to say I don’t miss it. The world looks spiteful to me in the way it insists on continuing on and on, when I feel as if everything within me has stopped. On the bright side, Lois and Carl are in the same boat. Lois has arranged for us to meet up with some of our other school friends this evening.

Writing to you makes me realize how little I ever told you about myself. Oh, I never really lied, and you knew the important things. It’s almost as if I were a song for you, and though you could play the melody from memory, effortless, you never knew the lyrics. I could never share them, but considering I cannot send this letter anyway, I may as well take this opportunity to tell you something of those people who could be but specters to my Muggle life.

Lois and Margaret – we call her Peg – were my best friends at school. I arrived at Lois’ flat a week ago, hours past midnight. She opened the door, and there I was, sobbing like a madwoman. Of course she and Carl have offered me a bed, no questions asked. They didn’t even bat an eye. I feel guilty for their generosity when they are only just married and still getting their feet under them in the world, but what else could I do?

I remember when you found me crying, the first time. It stormed madly that day and your hair was tousled where the wind had run its icy fingers through your curls. We must have looked a sight. You stood there, ruffled and tufted, eyes panicked, mouth slack with concern, and tried to console me while I sobbed into the back of the chair with my legs curled under, Hardy and his ill-fated Tess lying spine-up, the pages crumpled beneath.  When you finally worked out what was the matter, you laughed and hugged me, and tickled my feet. “It’s just a story, Minnie girl, don’t fret,” you said, rubbing warm circles on my back. You kissed my cheeks where the tears had dried, and together we laughed off the cruelty of mankind toward his own creation.

Lois is calling. She says it’s time to leave for our little rendezvous. In truth, I’d rather be with you – even crying – than drinking mulled wine at some hidden-away magical haunt here in Oxford. I won’t argue with her, though. I know it will help to be out and about, even if all the while I long for green pastures instead of weathered stone

Love,  
Minerva

*

September 14, 1954

I have nothing of particular consequence to write, but I dearly miss talking with you, even about the most mundane of topics, so the parchment will have to do in your stead. It is a paltry substitute indeed.

My job at the Ministry started a week ago, and I have moved to the city. It’s a good position for a witch straight out of Hogwarts. One of my professors helped me to secure it. I ran into him last week in Diagonally Alley and he said little, but his expression offered sympathy rather than congratulations. With the way I’ve been feeling it seemed only natural, so I was later startled to realize that he must know somehow of our estrangement. How he heard of it I can’t imagine, but I appreciated the kindness all the same. He’s done a lot for me; I wish you could meet him, although you’d be fair startled by the sight.

There is so much about my world that would astonish you. I wish I could have told you about it, and all the uses for magic, both extraordinary and everyday. You used to wonder how I always kept my father’s house so clean, how the dishes always sparkled, and yet I read more than anyone you’d known. Months ago, before I’d memorized your scent, your hands, the low melody of you voice, you found me three times in one day lazing with a novel under the apple tree in the front garden. That was the day I memorized your laugh, when its pleasant rumble rang out across the field, calling me lazy bones.

Even more, I crave to confess how I so easily evaded my family’s curiosity on my daily morning visits to your cottage. There was something lovely about casting a Disillusionment Charm on myself and ghosting like morning mist across the pastures. Quite apart from everything else, I miss the green of Scotland.

I spend my days in London now, and it is far from green. My work is interesting, at least. You’d enjoy the debate, and there are frequent moments when I wish for your opinion on the complex ethical questions I encounter through the tangle of the law. My opinion is unwavering, and I wonder at times if you would see things differently, and if you could coax me into ambiguity. I don’t aim to be strident, but without you to temper me it seems inevitable.

I’ve just remembered what I was reading when you called to me across the field. It was the very same book I had finished when you found me in tears. Perhaps, if I had known how things would end, I would never have begun it. Perhaps I would not have remained there, lounging in the sun all day. And then, for all I know, the end might have been something else entirely, some glittering happily ever after.

How I wish that were so.

Love,  
Minerva

*

September 19, 1954

Dearest Doug,

I feel like I’m sleepwalking, moving through each day without notice, thinking of nothing when I can help it, and of you when I cannot. I thought I saw you yesterday. Some unknown man walked by, a total stranger, but there was something in his posture and the feathered brown of his hair that brought you strongly to mind. Is it the same for you? Do I wander through the maze of your thoughts like you do through mine, ceaseless? If so, I am dearly sorry, for it is a pain I know well and I would not wish it upon you. Neither, for that matter, do I wish it upon myself.

Lois has been nothing but kind sweetness, but Peg is more forthcoming. She’s not one for patience, either. A few nights ago at The Eagle and Child – that’s our local – our usual gang was drinking a round. I had a bit more than usual as it takes me a good deal of liquid courage simply to be out of the house these days. Peg had brought a fella with her, a baby faced rugby player three times her size, and was allowing him to get a feel or two under the table. You know how I feel about publicizing such indiscretions; eventually I shot her a look over my wine. Well, I really should have known better. She gave a burst of laughter – her date went positively scarlet – and told me off. You should have heard her. “Talk about sour grapes! Miss Minerva acting prudish because she up and left her bloke behind!” Of course I was horrified, asking her to stop talking, or at least quiet down, but she never was one to mind anyone’s opinion but her own. She’s not heartless, though. I appreciate her bluntness at times, truly. They are stark words, but they stick in my mind that way. “I’m sorry, love, but you’ll not be able to move on if you keep dwelling. It’s clear you don’t really want to get over him at all!”

She was right. I don’t want to get over you, don’t want to forget you. I have magic in my blood, but there was a different magic altogether between us, a glow of intangible brilliance that sparked in your presence, and I want both. I never thought myself greedy, but it seems I am.

However, for all that I muse and philosophize, for all that my chest contracts every time I think of you – which is always – I am my father’s daughter. Which is to say, I am cursedly pragmatic.  Peg may be indelicate in every way, but she’s wiser for it, and her words hit the mark squarely. I cannot have you. I must resign myself to the magic I have, and leave that other enchantment in the past.

I will not write anymore. I see now it was a mistake, an indulgence. Life moves on and so, too, must I.

I will miss you.

Love,  
Minerva

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Hail J. K. Rowling, Queen of the Potterverse. (I own nothing.)
> 
> The epitaph is from Tess of the D'Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy. This is also the novel Minerva references in her letters a few times.
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you left some thoughts in that little box down there, you'd make me extremely happy!


End file.
